


the lost shakespeare hours

by doofusface



Category: Mr. Iglesias (TV)
Genre: Acting, Canon Compliant, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, References to Shakespeare, Teenagers, rehearsal, this is exactly what you think it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25742032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface/pseuds/doofusface
Summary: They practice every day she’s off from work.
Relationships: Marisol Fuentes & Grace Li, Marisol Fuentes & Lorenzo Webber, Marisol Fuentes & Mikey Gutierrez, Marisol Fuentes/Mikey Gutierrez, Walt Dobbs & Marisol Fuentes & Mikey Gutierrez & Grace Li & Lorenzo Webber, Walt Dobbs & Mikey Gutierrez
Comments: 14
Kudos: 80





	the lost shakespeare hours

**Author's Note:**

> will be off for a bit, so have some fun with the new act 6 chap and this, one of my fave fics ive written probs

_“I’m only available from 5 AM to 1 AM, but you can call me if you need me inbetween.”_

The thing is, Marisol’s not quite sure what to ask.

It’s not like there’s a test—no definitive questions and answers, no explanation of a term, no mathematical equation. It’s just an _exercise_.

Practical application.

Of emotions.

Emotions she doesn’t really…have?

(Currently.)

( _Or ever_.)

…Well, maybe she can sort of, like, _relate_ —to the attention part, of course.

(She’s not going to think too hard on this, she absolutely will _not_.)

But what do you ask for advice on with a 400+ year old play that also happens to be notorious for having kissing scenes?

_Hey, pal, friend, buddy—can we practice the play, and especially that one scene where my character falls for your character and then they—we—kiss, but without the kissing part because that’s weird, because you have a massive crush on me?_

(Marisol wants to never see or hear this play ever again after this year.)

Okay.

Baby steps.

Just…

How to act, maybe?

How to fake feelings?

* * *

“That was better,” Mikey says on their first private after school practice at a neighborhood park, polite if anything. He looks down at the lines again. “You need to believe it more, though.”

“I do believe it,” Marisol huffs, sitting down on the park bench. “I believe _Juliet_ believes it.”

Mikey sits beside her, book up and tilted towards her. He shakes his head. “No, like—” He points at the passage. “—when you’re saying it, you don’t say it as _you_. You say it as _Juliet_.”

Marisol squints, unamused. “I know. That’s what I’m doing.”

Mikey shakes his head again, excess energy making him adjust in his seat. “But you still sound like you’re Marisol _pretending_ to be Juliet.”

“But I _am_ Marisol pretending to be Juliet.”

“You have to _be_ Juliet,” Mikey says, and something clicks.

Marisol’s seen it happen at practice—Mikey says the words and the whole world stops. For however long the scene takes, he’s not that bumbling boy she’s known most of her life.

He’s _Romeo_. 

Smooth, endeared, in love.

And it’s happening again now, except it sucks for her because they’re alone here, and obviously she should’ve thought about the consequences of practicing a _romantic play_ with her co-star _outside of drama class_ because there are no buffers now, and something feels very, _very_ weird in her stomach.

( _Shut_ that _down_ , Fuentes.)

“‘Tis torture and not mercy,” Mikey says in full character, talking to a Friar she can’t see.

( _Ah_ , great. She’s mesmerized.)

His jaw clenches, seized up by an urgency poets only wished they could convey. “Heaven is _here_ , where Juliet lives.”

Marisol’s jaw drops slightly as she gets sucked into the moment, like every other time he’s done this.

A _blink_ and the magic trick’s over. “See?” Mikey asks, raising his brows briefly. “When you say it, don’t think about it too much. Just…let it move you, I guess?” He snaps his fingers. “I got it! Think of it like a song, right? Just feel the music.”

“Feel the music I can’t hear, got it,” Marisol says, dead serious.

Mikey lets out a small whine.

She breaks into a grin. “I’m _joking_. I get it, I think.” She smooths out her book’s pages, more out of nerves than anything else. “Just…putting it into practice…”

“It’s cool, we can go as many times as you need to,” Mikey shrugs, smiling lopsidedly. “You booked the whole afternoon.”

Marisol laughs. “Guess I did.” She looks down at the words, mocking her lack of talent and skill. “So, from Act 3?”

* * *

It’s embarrassing to admit to anyone out loud, but…

 _Yes_ , she enjoys it.

The one-on-one time.

The fact that Mikey’s actually in-tune with something—that he can explain it, that he knows more about it than she does, that he’s as patient with her as she’s been with him.

It’s like she’s on vacation, except she’s also definitely not, because if she slacks on this she’s _dead_ , and not in the _Juliet Dies From Miscommunication_ sense, either.

The thought of the entire school seeing her bomb on stage crosses her mind way too many times, and it. is. _torture_.

* * *

(Mikey bribes her with an ice cream run if she promises to not spiral when they’re practicing, and honestly? Best course of action.)

* * *

They practice every day she’s off from work, mostly in the same spot of the same park. 

Sometime after their fourth meeting, she realizes it’s where they’d met, days before school started, in third grade.

Same yellow swing set, same gaudy bench.

 _Way_ more rust.

Mikey’s rocking his swing back and forth idly, quickly doing a rundown of the lines of their friends from the scene before theirs. He’s got a little crease between his brows, a little dip in his posture as he leans forward, dead serious and concentrated.

It’s…nice to see.

Him so enamored with some _thing_ and not some _one_.

It lets _her_ observe, for once.

Marisol’s gaze follows the lines of his face, slight contortions forming when he gets to a scene with Lord Montague.

She pauses on his lips.

Mikey keeps talking.

Marisol keeps listening.

* * *

( _Barely_.)

* * *

"Hey, you remember when Lorenzo got stuck on the monkey bars?" Marisol says out of nowhere, derailing Mikey's train of thought as he reads through the script while they take a break.

 _Blink_. "Oh, when his hoodie got stuck?" Mikey says, frowning a bit as he thinks back. "… _Haha_. Didn't Grace have to pull us over?"

Marisol grins. "'Cause she didn't talk yet, yeah." 

(He's not sure if it's just him, but something in her smile softens, and the sunset is making it really hard to not do something stupid.)

She clears her throat, but the smile's still there—stuck and unwilling to budge. "Random, sorry."

He bumps her knee with his. "'s all good."

Marisol laughs—light and with a smile that's mostly in her eyes.

Heavy and with a feeling she's not sure just started tonight.

Their swings creak and still.

Mikey watches her smile fade and return. Fade and return. Fade and return.

Marisol watches his eyes, and the sunset bringing orange to his brown. The slow blink she's not sure is in real-time.

The fact that he's moving closer.

The fact that she is, too.

_PLOP!_

" _Um_ ," Mikey gulps, frozen and still staring at her.

Marisol sucks in a breath, not moving either forward or back. "S-So."

_Creeaaaak._

Mikey blinks, finally, and there's a second there—a flash, almost—of a tug of his lips to the side, like he wouldn't have expected anything more.

Because that just doesn't happen to him.

He leans down and picks up the scriptbook. 

(Marisol's throat is _dry_.)

Mikey gives her an apologetic smile. "…Act 4?"

* * *

Grace watches Marisol mess with her locker combination for the fifth time.

…And fail, for the fifth time.

Grace grimaces. "I kinda wanna ask, but I also know you and Mikey have been practicing by yourselves, so…"

Marisol exhales, arms leaning on her locker door and her head defeatedly hitting the metal lightly. "I swear I'm okay."

"You're doing a four-four on your locker. With your head."

"Get out of here with your music lingo."

"I'm jus' sayin'." Grace shuts her own locker. "You have like thirty seconds to next period."

Marisol peeks. " _You_ know what my combo is."

"So?"

"So _help_ me."

"Only because this is really pathetic," Grace says, shooing her.

(If Marisol's jaw drops yet again, nobody makes a comment.)

 _Click_ , _click_ , _click_.

"Reaaally pathetic, Marisol," Grace says, patting her friend's shoulder as she walks ahead to class.

"You used to be so nice!" Marisol yells after her.

"That _was_ me being nice!" Grace yells back.

* * *

They never do the stage kisses when they run lines by themselves.

Marisol swears to herself it's so Mikey doesn't get any ideas, but the closer finals and the play come into view, the less she's so…sure…that it’s for _his_ benefit.

Like, the whole palm to palm thing isn't something they do a run-through on, either—no hands, just words. Just… _gazing_ at each other, like how Romeo and Juliet would, except sometimes there are other people at the park, and sometimes there are kids watching, and sometimes she's not sure what would happen if they practice like, _alone_ -alone.

There are two little girls in particular who are so keen on watching them—well, _her_ —repeat certain scenes over and over again, cooing and clapping even though she knows it's nowhere near on the level that it needs to be.

But those two make her feel a little better, even if it's totally because they don't know any better.

It's _way_ less brutal than when the middle school kids are nearby and roast the living hell out of the both of them—again, _just her_ —when she says a line so bland even Walt high on weed wouldn't buy it.

"You wanna stop for the day?" Mikey asks once, a few weeks before their show, ticked on her behalf at the kids jeering across the fence.

"I wanna kick some ass, but they're too young for it to be fair," Marisol says, frowning at their audience. She looks at Mikey. "How far does Whitney live?"

"She's in a gated area."

"Lucky her."

Mikey sucks in air.

Marisol raises a brow at him. "What is it?"

"More and more people keep showing up," Mikey says carefully. He rocks back and forth on his heels, letting the swing move slightly.

"…And?"

"…Well." _Gulp_. "W-We could practice at the auditorium?"

Oh, great.

Actual walls.

More solitude.

_Kill her now._

"Just 'cause, y’know," he continues, waving his book around vaguely, "it would be weird, to like, to go to my place. _Or_ your place." _Gulp_ , again, and his pitch rises. " _Oranyplacethat'sahouse_."

(The unfortunate thing is Marisol's first thought is: _It wouldn't suck, though_.)

Perhaps her face is very warm.

And perhaps she will ignore that.

“Y-Yeah,” Marisol says, nodding. “Sounds good to me.”

Mikey’s grin makes it worth the minor awkward behavior. “Great!” He wiggles his script. “Act 5 tomorrow?”

Marisol grins right back. “Act 5 tomorrow.”

* * *

Hell of an idea, really, truly—absolute _aces_ to think up practicing lines and blocking at the same time at the auditorium where their future play will be running.

 _Superb_ to think it would be _great_ to be in _extreme privacy_ because no one else really wants to practice after hours, and _just their luck_ , Mr. Hernandez picks the last three weeks to look into diversifying his portfolio when not at work.

So.

Y’know.

(Marisol’s pretty sure there has to be a school rule against students being on school premises after hours without a supervisor, but Mr. Ochoa _so kindly_ signed off on their use of the auditorium and he never bothers to check in, so whatever.

This is where they’re at now.)

Mikey sets up a picnic blanket center stage, and Marisol’s weirdly excited about it.

“I see blanket, I don’t see snacks,” she says, smiling but very confused.

Mikey grins. “It’s for our last scene,” he says, arms spread out to show off his masterpiece. “Welcome to the crypt!”

“So we die on a picnic blanket?”

“Props team was working on the slab today, but the paint’s still wet,” he shrugs.

"So you were gonna drag that entire _very heavy_ prop to center stage for a quick practice?" Marisol says, holding back a laugh.

Mikey shrugs again, completely unfazed. "I help move it all the time."

 _Blink_.

"…What?"

"No, like," Marisol says, leaning forward with furrowed brows. "That thing is really heavy, dude."

A third shrug. "Seriously, I've been working out." He’s smug. “I got this.”

"Uh- _huh_."

"I can show you!"

"But it's wet," Marisol says, matching his smugness. " _Conveniently_."

Mikey chuckles. "Listen. The _second_ it's dry, I'll prove it to you. _Promise_."

Marisol quirks a brow. "Better pinky promise that, Montague."

"Pinky promise, Capulet," Mikey says, pinky out.

 _This is so silly_ , Marisol thinks, wrapping her pinky around his. She smiles, shaking her head. "I'm not calling the nurse if you pull something."

Mikey gives her a look that she can't quite understand—a little smug, a little confident, a little—

A little _sure_.

A thousand percent sure of whatever he's about to say.

"Yeah, you will, Marisol," Mikey says, so light and solemn. "You're always lookin' out for me."

* * *

(Practice goes extremely well and he does as promised at the end of it.)

* * *

(She does _not_ swoon at the blatant display of male ego, but it does make her laugh fondly to remember how proud he looked while pushing the giant prop to center stage.)

* * *

(How happy he looked when he looked at her and found her cheering him on.)

* * *

"I'm fine," Marisol says to Grace before practice a week to Death On Stage Day, right at the start of class.

"I didn't say anything," Grace says, looking up from her script. She squints at her friend. "You're being _weird_."

"…I know," Marisol says, closing her eyes. She thumps her script to her forehead. "I'm just—"

"I'm not gonna ask," Grace says, throwing her hands up. Lorenzo passes them, and she grabs him by the collar, pulling him back.

" _'Ey_ , what—"

"She's your problem now, bro," Grace says, patting his face. "Don't die. It's _really_ hard not to, but I believe in you."

Marisol frowns, tilting her head. "Grace."

"I love you, but you're just…" Grace makes a sound that sounds a lot like a crashing airplane. "… _Y'know?_ "

" _Hey!_ "

"Oh, that's true," Lorenzo says, nodding. He pats Marisol with the back of his hand. "You should see your face."

"You don't even know what she's talking about," Marisol deadpans.

He shrugs. "Girl, anyone in this class with a working pair of eyes knows what she's talking about."

"…I don't want to talk to you."

"Uh-huh. _Who_ has the _only_ stable romantic relationship in this room?"

"… _Shutup_ ,Lorenzo," Marisol seethes, speed walking away.

* * *

They talk during dress rehearsal, while Principal Madison desecrates the sanctity of theater etiquette.

(…Well, they’re kinda doing that too, but at least they’re not on stage and it isn’t a real performance yet, so they get a free pass.)

When Mikey says they should do the stage kiss instead, there’s a switch that flips in Marisol’s head—something about all the little things over the last seven years, and all the big things over the last several months.

Following her around, trying (failing) to hide his crush, and consistently being her friend.

Musing out loud about kissing Juliet, being the best acting coach she’ll ever have, and considering her feelings.

She’s not sure when he’d grown up, but looking back…

Well.

Looking back, he might’ve been _obvious_ , but he was also always _denying_ it. He might’ve been a puppy, but he _never_ followed her around in a way that crossed a line. He always listened to her— _really listened_ , because he took friend duties very seriously. 

…To be completely fair, he never actually made a move. And judging from what Mr. Iglesias was complaining about to Mr. Ochoa in the halls over the last week, Mikey’d been too scared to mess up their friendship to try.

So, well, _okay_.

Him giving up what he figures is his one shot in life at ever kissing her—because it’s _wrong_ , because it’s _taking advantage of the situation_ —is what does it.

Makes Marisol stop fighting the annoying feeling in her stomach whenever Mikey does something sweet or funny, and the fuzzy brain mode she gets when she’s staring into his eyes while she says some old words with older feelings.

Makes her want to _puke_ and _yell_ and stick another set of dessert stickers all over her locker.

Makes her wonder what it might be like if, maybe, she stopped obsessing over school and grades long enough to allow a boy who loves her beyond anything else in his life into that little-known spot of her heart.

Makes her think so hard she forgets to sleep.

* * *

…Makes her reconsider this whole “stage kiss” thing at the last minute.

* * *

“O then dear saint, let lips do what hands do,” Mikey says, as Romeo.

(They do the stage kiss, exactly as practiced.)

There’s a lull—pin-drop silence, a second and a half, a moment where she’s looking into his eyes and all coherent thought takes a sharp turn into _DOITDOITDOITDOIT_ -ville.

(She listens to it.)

And Marisol kisses him.

As Marisol.

* * *

Mikey stares at her backstage after the first act, silent but not for lack of trying.

She’s real glad she doesn’t care who finds out that she thinks he’s cute, because that’s the only thought in her mind as he flounders, again and again, trying to start a conversation with her before they go back up on stage.

“Wh—The— _You_ —Uh—” he tries again, knit brows frustrated and twitching lips impossibly happy.

(Marisol feels the kittens backflipping again, but this time a horde of butterflies joins ‘em.)

“Uh-huh,” she manages to say, nodding. Her hands try to find pockets to hide in, remember she’s in a dress, and attempt to hide under her sleeves instead. “Mhm.”

“ _Ummm_ ,” Mikey stares.

“ _Yuuup_ ,” Marisol grins.

Walt walks by, shoving Mikey two feet closer to her. “Time to shine, Pete Davidson,” he whispers, smirking and stepping away.

“What?” Marisol says after him, squinting at their friend.

(Mikey’s _riiiiiight_ in front of her again, like _right there_ , like _kissing distance_ —which she knows now, because they’ve done it, because she freakin’ went for it, because _hoooooooly crap_ , she _likes_ him.

She likes him a _lot_.)

“I’mstillavailablefrom5AMto1AM,” Mikey blurts, eyes wide. He gulps. “Andinbetween.”

( _LIKE A LOT_.)

“ _Uhhhh_ —I’m free tomorrow?” Marisol says, catching on.

Mikey grins, crinkling his eyes. His hands fumble, trying to find something to hold on to and settling again on his sword hilt. “So—uh, so the park?”

Marisol chews the inside of her cheek, trying not to smile too wide. “The park.”

“Same time?”

“No.”

“Wait, _no?_ ” Mikey frowns.

“No,” Marisol says, still smiling up at him, still very much enjoying her time in his eyes.

“Uh, why—”

“ _Earlier_ ,” she says simply, bouncing on her feet.

That adorable smile returns. “…Earlier.” He nods, and keeps nodding. “Earlier. Tomorrow. At the park.” _Inhale._ “Okay. Okay, cool.”

“It’s a… _date_ ,” Marisol says, (almost) shy.

“A…date,” Mikey repeats, surprised and giddy. “A—a date with _you_. With Marisol.”

Oops. Maybe she should’ve done this after the show. “Mikey,” she teases, “you remember your lines, right?”

“I remember everything except that one part where I blacked out because you did the thing.”

“The thing.”

“The kiss.”

Marisol laughs. “You need to get used to saying that.”

Mikey frowns. “Huh? Why do I— _mm!_ ”

* * *

The thing is, Marisol’s not quite sure what to ask.

It’s not like she’s been on dates before—no strolls down the pier, no sharing desserts, no hand-in-hand and arm-in-arm. It’s all _new_.

A real relationship.

With emotions.

Emotions she’s never really…had?

(Until _now_.)

(Until one Mikey Gutierrez.)

She can kind of, like, _relate_ , to the _I wanna hang out with you all the time_ thing—mostly because it’s true.

(If she thinks about it too long there’s always a wave of nervous nausea that follows, so she’s absolutely _not_ going to do that.)

But what do you ask advice on when your boyfriend is so sweet and so good to you _and_ also happens to make your heart go a million miles a minute?

_Hi, Ms. Ontiveros—remember how Mikey and I have been dating for like three months? Is it weird that I like him this much or is it completely normal? ‘Cause I haven’t been able to sleep properly for like a month now and it’s kind of driving me insane._

(Marisol tries to bargain with herself that they’re on a weird pace because they already know each other, but it still nags at her.)

Okay.

Baby steps.

Just…

How do you know when you’re in love, maybe?

How to say it without passing out?

**Author's Note:**

> see you soon fam! 
> 
> God bless ya and stay safe <3


End file.
